Sealy Serta Winchester

By Brate

The men were at it again.

Dean looked at the clock. Zero two one seven. Daddy still wasn't home. Three-year-old Sammy was asleep next to him in the bed, arms and legs wrapped around him like an octopus. Dean didn't mind. As long as it made his brother feel better, Dean would put up with anything. He looked at the clock again. Zero two one eight. Daddy was late.

And the men were getting louder.

Earlier in the evening, they had started drinking, singing, and laughing. But soon after, the noise had really started. The voices got louder, angrier, rising over each other using words Daddy didn't let him say. Something hit the shared wall with a thud. Dean watched it worriedly. Something heavier followed, cracking the plaster and causing the wall to jump. Sammy whimpered and woke with a cry. Dean brought his arms up around his brother, rubbing his back until the warm little body went limp again.

Things crashed. Fists and feet banged against the walls, and then the crying began.

Now someone was running up and down the hall.

Dean's arms tightened around Sammy. Too tight, if his brother's sleepy whimper was anything to go by.

His eyes tracked a shadow as it raced past the window, the thin glass their only protection. Another crash and the shadow came back, hovering just beyond the curtain.

Dean searched the room with his gaze. What was he gonna do? He couldn't get Sammy outside. And even if he could, they had no place to go.

The person next door sounded hurt. Dean could hear a wounded keening sound coming faintly through the wall. He hoped someone would call the police. The phone sat just inches beyond Sammy's head on the nightstand. But he couldn't—Daddy said not to. Not unless he or Sammy was bleeding out their eyeballs. The police weren't safe. If someone found out that two kids were alone, they could be taken away from Daddy.

As if in response to his thoughts, a siren sounded in the distance.

The shadow swore and wheeled around. The knob to their door rattled.

Dean's breath came fast as he took in the room again, trying to eye it strategically the way his Daddy would. Dean vaguely remembered something one of his teachers had told him to do in case of tornados: if you didn't have a basement, the safest place to hide was in the bathtub.

Decision made, Dean extricated himself from his brother's grip. He went to Daddy's bed and stripped the comforter and blankets off, gathering them in his arms. Dean paused, looked at the door, then back at Sammy, before racing to the bathroom and dumping everything into the tub.

Seconds later, eyes fixed on the window in case the shadow returned, Dean gently shook his brother's arm. "Sammy. Sammy, you gotta get up."

Sammy rolled away from him, burrowing deeper under the covers. "Don' wanna," he murmured.

"I know, kiddo, but we have to move." He pushed at Sam again, nudging him to a seated position.

Sam blinked in the half-light of the motel sign and rubbed his eyes. He looked at Dean for an explanation, his eyes asking if he should be scared.

Dean gave him a big smile, hoping to distract. "We're gonna do a campout," he said forcing excitement into his voice.

Sam looked confused for a moment before breaking into his own smile. "With s'mores?" Sammy had been angling for them recently. After all, if the Bradys loved them, then why not the Winchesters?

Dean shook his head, hating when his brother's smile dimmed. "Come on." He captured Sam's hand in one of his own, and a weapon in the other. "Bring your pillow."

When Sam saw the blankets in the tub, he let out an ooh. "We get to sleep in there?"

Dean dragged Daddy's green duffel bag into the cramped space. He shoved it against the door, blocking it closed. "Yeah, but just for tonight."

"Okay," Sam said cheerfully. He climbed over the side and into the tub, sticking his pillow under the faucet.

Dean followed, sliding in next to Sam. They faced each other, sharing the pillow.

Sam shot him a secret smile. "Just for tonight," he whispered.

"A special treat," Dean confirmed. "Now back to sleep."

Tucking his head under Dean's chin, Sam nodded off quickly, leaving Dean to keep watch. The noises from outside were muffled in here and Dean felt safer. Sammy was safe.

Daddy found them the next morning, curled up in the bathtub. Dean had one arm around Sammy, the other clutching a shotgun.

*****

Sam's stare roamed the darkened room. It was in the early morning hours and he had yet to fall asleep. His roommate wouldn't be arriving until the next day, and he was alone in his dorm room.

Alone.

Sam couldn't remember being truly alone… ever. Even when Dad and Dean hunted without him, Sam always knew they would return. But neither would be coming here.

If you leave, don't come back. His father's words echoed again and again.

It was Sam's decision, his choice. But it didn't make it any easier lying on a strange bed, in a strange place.

He rolled over, punching his pillow, his unprotected back deliberately and defiantly turned toward the door. New life, new rules.

Sam was used to the unfamiliar. Hell, he'd been on the move since before he could remember. But there had always been the consistency of his family, even when he didn't want them to be around: the noise of the TV playing softly, the quiet scratching of Dad's pen, the smell of gun oil and scrape of a bore brush, Dean murmuring to Dad.

Now the room was much too quiet.

His spine began to itch.

Sam flipped over, staring at the door: innocuous, wooden, flimsy. It wouldn't stop much of anything. Especially seeing as Sam hadn't placed any of the usual wards or protections before going to bed.

He'd left all that behind for a safer world, but something inside Sam was starting to whisper how sheltered he'd been. Even in the midst of the dangerous insanity that had been his life, he'd always felt protected.

Sam let his head thud back into the pillow. He stared at the ceiling. There was a crack next to a water stain shaped like Texas.

He eyed the digital clock. Watching the numbers flick slowly by, Sam sighed, resigned.

With a growl, he got up and padded over to his backpack. Wrenching open the front pocket, he dug out a fistful of packets. Bunching them up, he tore off the tops and started laying the salt lines.

Once he'd done that, he shook his head. In for a penny…

He got his knife from beneath his pillow and carved protection runes into the bed, doorframe, and windowsill, ignoring the small wood chips littering the floor.

This time when he tumbled into bed, Sam fell asleep almost instantly.

*****

Dean softly clicked the door closed, making sure his absence and reentrance hadn't disturbed his brother. Not that he thought anything short of a five megaton explosion would at this point.

Sam had been fighting the flu, finally succumbing due to pure exhaustion. Once he'd realized it was serious, Dean had pulled over at the first motel he'd seen. Unfortunately, the only available room was a king—didn't that just figure—but he wasn't about to drag Sammy anywhere else. Besides, this way Dean could keep track of his brother easier and still get some shut-eye.

Two days of fever had finally broken about an hour before, but Sam was still too warm for Dean's peace of mind. Sam had barely woken long enough to swallow the Gatorade Dean had been forcing down him.

Dean crossed the room, set the ice bucket down on the bedside table, and leaned across, letting his hand brush over Sam's forehead. He rested it there for a second, gauging his temperature. Still hot, but getting better.

With a sigh, Dean rounded the bed, gathered the novel he'd discovered in the drawer of the last place they'd stayed, and sat down. The cover and the first five pages were missing but, except for some priest being murdered in the Louvre, he didn't seem to have missed out on much. He scooted over, close enough to his brother to feel the heat still enveloping Sam.

As the bed shook, Sam's head came up.

"You alive yet?" Dean looked over, not expecting much of a response. Sam had woken previously, but had just stared blankly at any attempt at conversation. Then he'd rolled over and gone back to sleep.

This time, Sam's glassy, red-rimmed eyes focused on Dean's book. He reached a hand from beneath the covers and grabbed at it.

Not letting go, Dean told him, "I'm reading it."

"I need it," Sam slurred, hypnotically determined.

"How 'bout I get you a nice glass of water instead," Dean offered.

Sam tugged harder, his long fingers slowly pulling it down. "I need it."

The begging eyes and pitiful plea did him in. Dean surrendered the book with a sigh. "Fine."

Smiling softly, Sam clutched his treasure and burrowed in next to Dean.

Dean stared at him for a beat, shaking his head. Only Sam could be burning with fever and need a book to snuggle. Even out of his gourd, the kid was a geek.

He shrugged philosophically and decided he could wait until tomorrow to find out how the story ended. Dean looked around the room, past their stuff dumped unceremoniously across chairs and tables, beyond the brown shag carpet and the wood laminate chest of drawers, to the empty space on top where no TV sat. He sighed. Okay, then. He put his hand on Sam's shoulder and settled in, readily giving what comfort he could even as he counted peel strips in the textured wallpaper.

*****

"Dean?" No answer. "Dean!" Sam yelled louder, fear clenching his gut.

A few more moments went by before he heard a quiet, "Here."

Sam looked around, but he still couldn't find his brother in the hurricane-inspired mess left by the raging poltergeist. "Where?"

"In the corner."

Sam swerved around the protruding dresser drawers, his shoes crunching across the remains of a broken mirror, kicking away clothes and their strewn-about gear. When he reached his destination, he looked down at his brother. Only Dean's head and one arm were sticking out. Dean looked fine, merely pissed off at being ambushed by furniture, pinned by a bed more firmly than a sumo wrestler could have done.

"Are you okay?" Sam managed to ask, straight-faced for the moment.

"Yeah, just can't get any leverage to get this bitch off me."

Knowing his brother was unhurt, Sam gave in to his mirth. He started giggling—though he would deny that's what it was—which didn't take too long to lead to full belly laughs.

From his supine position, Dean cocked an eyebrow, disbelief tinged with worry. "Dude, are you okay?"

Sam shakily nodded, tears streaming down his face. He couldn't give a reason why he was reacting this way, but the release felt good.

Apparently, Dean decided to wait him out. But Sam just kept laughing. Every time he'd try to stop, he'd look over at Dean, squeezed between the mattress and nightstand, and it struck him anew.

Lacking patience in the best of circumstances, even less so while trapped under these, Dean finally snapped, "What is your problem?"

Taking a couple of deep breaths, Sam said, "Dude, you got attacked… by… a bed. Not even a grown-up one, but a twin!"

"Shut up and get me out of here or—"

"Or what, you'll throw a pillow at me?" Sam countered. He knew he was treading dangerous waters, but he couldn't resist the opportunity. "Talk about a thirteen-year-old girl at a slumber party."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "You are so dead."

"Not until I help you get free." Sam sat on the floor, out of his brother's reach. He folded his arms and studied Dean. "Eventually. But for now, there're some things I think we need to discuss about being equal partners…"

*****

Automatically flicking the television on when he passed, Dean staggered into the room and fell onto the nearest bed. Everything ached. Every nerve, muscle, hair protested fatigue. He managed to avoid being squashed by his gigantic brother by rolling over just in time. Apparently, Sam was as tired as he was. Too tired to walk the extra few feet to the other double bed in the room.

Deciding to live with it, oversized elbows digging ungracefully into his side and all, Dean focused on the TV screen. He groaned, batting a hand around for the remote.

It wasn't there.

Raising his head the bare minimum required to be able to scan the room, Dean spotted it sitting on top of the TV. He nudged Sam. His brother groaned but didn't move. Dean shoved at his shoulder. When his brother finally lifted his head from the pillow, Dean said, "Go change the channel."

Sam let his head drop down again. "You do it," the muffled voice said. "I'm too tired."

Dean wasn't going to give up so easily. "Come on, this flick sucks."

Twisting his body around to look, Sam moaned, "Oh, God, who cares." He pushed sideways. "Go switch it, man."

"I can't, I'm hurt." Dean held his arm up, showing the almost-bleeding scratch.

Sam snorted. "Hey, I was the one wrestling with a ghoul."

"Yeah, and I'm the one who rescued your ass when it had you pinned," Dean shot back.

"Shut up and eat your popcorn."

Eyeing the leftover mini-mart bag on the nightstand next to him, Dean reached over and hooked a finger into it, snagging the edge. Several kernels hit the floor and the bed, but he was too tired to care. He put it between them, reached inside, and dug out a fistful. A few minutes later, he asked, "What kind of movie is this? The girl is named Jo—don't even get me started on that—and the dude's name is Laurie. Is this like some old drag movie?"

Sam groaned from the pillow. "It's Little Women, Dean. It's a classic."

"Hmmph… a classic. A movie everyone's heard of but no one's seen."

"I've seen it," Sam defended. "I liked it."

"That's 'cause it's clearly a chick-flick," Dean shot back. "'Nough said."

Sam remained silent.

Feeling his brother's sudden tension, Dean realized it had probably been Jess whom Sam had seen it with. Mentally cursing his big mouth, Dean searched for something, anything to say. Seeing an opportunity, he said, "Dude, there's even a sister named Meg? Now I know this movie's evil. We might have to salt and burn the set or something."

He was rewarded with a quiet chuckle from Sam.

Dean continued his rant. "Why the hell do they call that lady Marmee? Are they making fun of her? Maybe she's retarded. That's not very P.C. And why 'Little Women'? There's no little people anywhere in this. Was the person wasted when they wrote this?"

Within a few minutes, Sam inelegantly flopped onto his back and was adding his own lame comments.

They made their way through the movie, which Dean had to admit wasn't as stupid as he would've guessed, and into the next movie—another Hepburn flick. He had always liked her sassiness.

Sam's head kept nodding forward, drooping steadily, until he finally drifted off fifteen minutes into the second movie, but Dean toughed it out, eyes dipping to half-mast but never quite surrendering. As the credits rolled, he dropped the empty popcorn bag onto the floor and flicked the light off, not bothering to get up and shut off the blue glow of the TV. 

He stretched to snag the comforter off the other bed, dragged it over, and used it to cover them both. Turning over, Dean "accidentally" drove an elbow into Sam's side, turning the snores into a snort of confusion.

Smiling, Dean snuggled in, enjoying the short and all-too-rare moment when he could forget what they were doing, what they were fighting for, what they were fighting against.

When they were just two brothers on a motel bed full of popcorn.

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